The meal you thought was undercooked
Reacting cruel, the waitress took
An earful of your outlook
Don’t piss off the chef

She nonchalantly heeds your wish
Returns once more with fresh-cooked dish
Disguised saliva as garnish
Don’t piss off the chef

You think you triumph with your tone
Of insolence, but unbeknown
To you, your shared testosterone
Renders you acutely prone
To karmic fire and brimstone
From those empolyed behind the zone
Next time garnish: acetone
DON’T PISS OFF THE CHEF.